


ADVENT [With Added Boxing Day]

by mydogwatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hiatus, Holidays, M/M, Reunion, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-03 04:50:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 20,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four British guys muddling through life and love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1 December

**Author's Note:**

> As promised, here is my holiday story, a sort of Advent calendar, that is meant to be mostly fun, although there is a full share of angst, because...well, I'm me. Plan is to post one a day through Boxing Day.
> 
> Hope you like.

1 DECEMBER

 

They knew one another, of course, albeit rather superficially, in the way all of those who orbited the bright star that was Sherlock Holmes knew one another.

More accurately, of course, the bright star that had been Sherlock Holmes until everything imploded on the pavement at St. Barts.

Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade actually first met some years earlier, in the unlikely location of a dire squat in Hackney. Two very different men standing over the prone and pitiable form of a dying drug addict. A team of medics struggled to keep the oh-so-fragile heart beating. It was a very close run thing.

Mycroft and Greg said very little to each other at that first meeting.  
What was there to say, after all? Sherlock would either live or die and there was absolutely nothing that either a constantly worried brother or a policeman who had tried to befriend the troubled young man could do about any of it.

Once only, their eyes met and something like sorrow or maybe it was anger at the unbelievable tragedy and waste happening in the room, flowed between them.

Then the moment passed. Without a word, Mycroft left in his long black limo to follow the ambulance to the hospital.

As for Greg, he went back to New Scotland Yard and wondered how to write a report on something that was not so much a crime as just a very sad story.

*****

He went to the small church hall and took a place in the queue of homeless people waiting for dinner. After a week, he was a familiar sight to the others. Whenever anyone seemed to be taking a little too much interest in the tall skinny man clad in a suit that had obviously once been expensive and well-tailored, but was now too large, filthy, and fraying, Sherlock would begin to mutter imprecations in flawless Italian. No one wanted to be caught staring at the pazzo.

There seemed to be a faint air of excitement moving through the crowd tonight, but Sherlock was only concerned with getting his bowl of pasta, eating it as quickly as possible, and getting back to work.

Tonight he was going to kill a man.

Not a very nice man, it was true.

As he stood waiting, Sherlock begrudged the time he was wasting here. Truthfully, he didn’t care if he ate or not. But he had undertaken to eat once a day or, at the very least, every other day as a sort of gift to John. His friend always wanted him to eat and so Sherlock forced himself to do so.

It was a foolish and sentimental gesture that John would never even know about, but Sherlock did his best to keep the promise he’d made to himself. And in some way, to John.

Finally the door to the church hall opened and the waiting people began to shuffle forward. Sherlock took his bowl of pasta and chunk of bread, then found a chair at one end of a long wooden table.

He just wanted to eat. Use the loo. Go kill a sniper. It was a simple plan.

By this time, he was able to mostly ignore the priest who delivered a brief homily every evening. Listening was apparently the price of a meal. Tonight the old man was reading from Isaiah, something about calling the people of Israel to repent. Apparently it was the first day of Advent.

Sherlock just shook his head slightly. December already. The days just slipped by; his life was just slipping by and no one knew or cared.

When the reading ended, several smiling children began to move down the length of the tables, handing each diner an envelope. Sherlock took his absently, shoving it into his pocket. He moped up the last of the sauce with his bread and stepped into the corridor for the loo.

He did not stay for the benediction, which earned him a frown from the sturdy nun guarding the door. Her disapprobation did not matter because this was the last time he would be here for a meal. By dinnertime tomorrow, he would be in a different country.

But first he had an appointment with an assassin.  
It wasn’t until he was back in the hovel he’d been staying in, until he had carefully cleaned the gun and packed it away, ready for its next target, that Sherlock remembered the envelope. He pulled it out of his pocket and opened it.

Inside there was a small piece of chocolate and an Advent calendar. A note promised more chocolate every day until Christmas for those who turned up to listen to the priest.

He stared at the calendar, seeing not the religious connotations at all, but only his own personal countdown. By Christmas, he would be back in London. Failing that, odds were he’d be dead.

At this point, he wasn’t sure it mattered very much what the outcome was.

**********


	2. 2 DECEMBER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Depressing visits and a wonderful Xmas window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who read chapter one. Hope you will hang around for the whole month!

2 DECEMBER

It was nothing either of them looked forward to doing, but something which each saw as a necessity. They took different weeks: Greg, the first and third and Mycroft, the second and fourth. Their scheme meant that John Watson had at least one visitor every week, whether he wanted it or not. And he really, really didn’t want it, especially when those visits were by two of the people he blamed, at least in part, for what had happened. Of course, he blamed Moriarty. Even more surely, he blamed himself, because he was John Watson and that was what he did. But sadly there was no escaping his own company. Not yet anyway.

Nevertheless, he felt that a large part of what had happened was down to the betrayal of Sherlock by both Mycroft and Lestrade. Neither man would disagree with that very much, had the subject ever come up. Which it did not.

So, all in all, the visits never went well. Guiltily, each man was vaguely relieved every time he walked away from 221B.

After each visit, there would be a phone call from one to the other.

John is still alive.

John is still not good.

Greg often voiced his opinion that John would simply never be okay and that, one day, he would just cease to be anything at all except a sad memory to put beside the other ghost. Which was exactly where the man wanted to be, of course. What Lestrade did not voice, because as a policeman he thought it sounded almost shameful, was that he sincerely hoped that if---when---the worst happened it would be on one of Mycroft’s weeks. He really did not want to walk into the flat and find the body of someone he liked.

At times during their phone calls, Mycroft would sometimes sigh and seem about to say something. Something that Greg sensed might be important. But whatever it was went unsaid.

“Goodbye, Greg,” Mycroft would finally say.

“Talk to you soon.”

If either of them felt as if something like friendship might be forming between them during these calls, neither man said a word about it. Somehow it seemed…indelicate to find anything at all positive coming from such a tragedy.

*****

 

It took John by surprise, which was in itself somewhat startling, because John hadn’t known that he could even be surprised anymore. Truthfully, John hadn’t known that he was still capable of feeling anything at all beyond the gaping emptiness that consumed him.

This night he’d gone for a long walk, because occasionally he needed to leave the flat. Especially after one of what he called the John Watson Suicide Watch visits. Today the hapless visitor had been Lestrade and this visit went as well as every other one had. 

So, anyway, John was just minding his own business, walking along Oxford Street, which was not terribly crowded at this hour. Then he saw it.

He did not even know which department store it was, but that didn’t matter. The massive window was brightly lit and decorated for Xmas, which John hadn’t even really been aware was approaching. Apparently the holidays were here.

He had always loved this time of the year, somehow holding on to his childlike delight in the decorations, the music, and even the peppermint sticks. Until this year anyway. 

For just a moment, an image flashed into his mind: Sherlock playing the violin on an Xmas Eve that seemed so very long ago now.

With practised ruthlessness, he excised the picture. It was the only way to keep from screaming, he sometimes thought.

But this window display captivated him.

John stepped so close that his nose almost touched the glass, just as had happened when he’d been a child during the holidays. He was totally enthralled by the scene in front of him.

The window had been turned into a perfect Victorian parlour. Gleaming mahogany furniture, floral wallpaper, a candle-lit Xmas tree in one corner. Two comfortable chairs sat in front of the roaring fire; a small table between them held a silver tea tray. Books were piled everywhere and a large desk was cluttered with papers in a way that was heart-wrenchingly familiar. The desk also held a globe and, unbelievably, a microscope.

It looked as if the occupants had just stepped away for a moment, but in John’s mind, the room was not empty. He saw two men sitting in those chairs, having tea, watching the flames, talking quietly.

This, he thought, was what should have been. Or, at least, what he wished might have been.

John stood there for a very long time, as the street grew ever quieter. He watched the two men talk, wishing he could hear the words. Finally they quieted and just sat in a companionable silence. John scarcely breathed as he waited to see what was going to happen next.

Suddenly, he realised that the temperature had dropped dramatically and he was starting to shiver. As he became increasingly aware of the reality that was Oxford Street, the two figures in the room seemed to fade away. For just a moment, he pressed a hand against the glass, perhaps saying good-bye [to the non-existent men? the room that had seemed so comfortable? to what might have been?] Finally, he turned away and walked slowly back to Baker Street.

**********


	3. 3 DECEMBER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blogging, ice skating, and being brave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Think all I have to say today is hi!

3 DECEMBER

It went without saying that this was a magnificently stupid idea in every respect. And he was going to do it anyway. Never let it be said that Gregory Lestrade was a coward.

Well, he thought he was going to do it, assuming that he could actually speak when the moment arrived.

//Come on, Lestrade,// he told himself irritably, //you’re a cop, known far and wide as a tough guy. You’ve faced down killers and one very pissed off ex-wife. You can do this.//

The phone call began as usual.

John is still alive.

John is not good. 

What are we going to do about John Watson?

This visit had been even worse than usual. John was in a manic mood, unable to sit still even long enough to drink the tea that Mrs. Hudson had, as always, brought upstairs for them. Instead, the doctor, too thin, too pale---and how wrong was that? It was supposed to be the other one who was an ivory wraith---moved endlessly around the room as they talked.

Well, mostly it was Greg who talked. John responded sometimes, although not necessarily to what Greg had actually said. Mostly he mumbled about his damned blog, about how he was close to proving once and for all that Sherlock was not a fraud.

Although it was depressing, Greg felt obligated to keep up with the blog, so he knew that, sadly, John was really not that close to proving anything at all. Except perhaps that grief was slowly destroying a good man, bit by bit. The policeman did not say that now, however, instead just watching as John moved around the room, caressing the skull, running a gentle hand across the polished surface of the violin case, picking up the Union Jack pillow and squeezing it briefly, almost like an embrace.

Greg could not get away quickly enough.

He sat in the car and punched a by-now familiar number into his mobile.

“Not a good day, then”, were Mycroft’s opening words. “You are seven minutes earlier than usual in calling.”

“Right. Not a good day.”

Okay. Time for the magnificently stupid idea.

“Mycroft, would you meet me for a drink?”

The pause went on rather longer than it should have.

//Magnificently stupid idea, Lestrade.//

“Come to my club. The Diogenes,” Mycroft said quietly.

Greg let out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

*****

There was absolutely nothing else he could do until the circus midget showed up. Oh, hell, was that the wrong word? John would frown at him if he offended someone. Well, if John were not an ocean away he would frown. So what was correct? Little person? 

Sherlock decided that it didn’t matter. Oscar was the midget’s name, so if it became necessary to address him as anything that would do. As long as the midget brought the information it would be fine.

There was still time to kill, so Sherlock wandered the streets of Manhattan, feeling cold and restless. The pavement was crowded with tourists and shoppers and every other kind of annoying humanity.

Finally, after a glance at his watch, Sherlock headed for Rockefeller Center to wait for the short bloke’s arrival. To pass the time and also warm his hands a bit [his leather gloves had somehow got left behind in Moscow], he bought a cup of hot cocoa from a kiosk; he had long ago given up the expectation of finding good tea anywhere but London. More specifically, 221B Baker Street.

Sipping the cocoa [which was actually rather good], Sherlock leant against the railing and watched the ice skaters. He made a few rather ordinary deductions about the people---a schoolteacher who was sleeping with the rather young man to whom she was clinging, an older man just diagnosed with a motor neuron disease who knows this is his last winter for skating, two adulterous couples.

All ordinary. All boring.

Where was the bloody midget?

As his eyes flickered again over the skaters, Sherlock paused on one pair.

The taller man was obviously very uncertain on the blades, his moves hesitant and just shy of clumsy as he tried to control his rather gangly limbs. His companion, shorter, sturdier, much more confident on the ice, held on to both of the first man’s hands, guiding him around the rink. They managed pretty well, until, without warning, the long, ungainly legs seemed determined to go in different directions. 

Abruptly, they were both on their arses on the ice. A split second later, the two men dissolved in laughter, still clinging to one another. And then the clumsy one smoothed fair hair out of the way and kissed his companion tenderly on the forehead.

Sherlock watched them for another moment and then turned away, trying to ignore the sudden tightness in his chest. Suddenly he felt even more alone.

At last, he spotted the little man hurrying towards him.

Time to work.

**********


	4. 4 DECEMBER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets begin to chafe. An evening out goes badly for poor John Watson. Can't the man catch a break?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting.

Secrets were the lifeblood of Mycroft’s existence, a reality that suited him all day long. Being the man who knew all the secrets meant that he was the man with power. Which mattered to him, probably too much, although that was the kind of thought which only occurred in the late night hours when he was alone with a snifter of fine brandy.

A day without a new secret to digest was a wasted day.

All of which lead to an unsettling conundrum, a puzzle of a sort that was not entertaining at all. Mycroft could not understand why the secret that was in many ways the most significant of his life was beginning to wear on him. Of course, there had always been a considerable level of guilt associated with this secret, because despite what many people [including his own brother] thought of him, Mycroft did not enjoy watching good people suffer or seeing a fine man spiraling down into a new level of hell every other week. But that was a whole different issue and not one he was prepared to dwell upon at the moment.

No, what was troubling him presently was something quite different.

He first became aware of the disquiet while sitting in the Diogenes, in one of the rooms where [quiet] conversation was permitted.

This was the second time he and Greg Lestrade had met for a drink after one of them had visited Baker Street. This time it had been Mycroft who ventured into the perpetually gloomy flat.

They compared notes.

Today there had been none of the frantic activity Greg had seen on his most recent visit. Mycroft was confronted with a much different man.

John was curled into a corner of the settee, wrapped into a tight ball. He ignored Mrs. Hudson, the tea and biscuits, and Mycroft. A steady stream of soft whispering was the only sound in the room. Mycroft could not hear most of what was being said, but it seemed to be a convoluted explanation of something called the Case of the Aluminium Crutch.

Greg just grimaced at Mycroft’s tale. If he never heard another word about that bloody crutch it would be too soon.

After they had said all that could be said on the sad subject of John Watson, the two men sat in a silence that was surprisingly comfortable as they sipped the excellent whiskey.

And that was when Mycroft’s disquiet began to flourish. Keeping The Secret from Greg suddenly seemed wrong.

Even beyond that, how could it suddenly seem to him that keeping any secret from this man was somehow…not right?

To repeat: Secrets were the lifeblood of his existence. So why did he inexplicably want to tell Greg everything? Not even just everything about The Secret, but about everything Mycroft thought and felt and maybe even dreamed about.

It made no sense.

*****

Sometimes a man just wanted to sit in a strange pub where he knew no one and no one knew him. He only wanted to relax and have a quiet drink, whilst thinking about whatever he wanted to think about. Which, for this evening, seemed to be Cluedo, although John had absolutely no idea why. But he was something like content and that was all he could hope for these days.

That really didn’t seem like too much to ask, did it?

Well, apparently in the world where John Watson now resided, it was a wish too far.

The evening had started well enough. This was the perfect pub for his purpose, a small, untrendy establishment with no loud music or noisy games. John wouldn’t say that he was pleased, because nothing really pleased him these days, but he was not displeased.

That sense of not-quite-contentment lasted until halfway through his pint.

Then a loud and grating voice crashed through the peace of the pub. “Jeezus! It’s Three-Continents Watson!” There was a boom of laughter.

John looked up to see a vaguely familiar face approaching. There was no pleasure in the recognition. He had not much liked Mitch Donnelly when they’d served together in Afghanistan and seeing him here now was even worse. John refused to stand for the bear hug that Donnelly obviously intended to deliver, so the other man settled for pounding him on his [thankfully good] shoulder.

“Watson, you old son of a bitch.” He sat down without being invited, plopping his drink down onto the table. “You sure look better than the last time I saw you.”

Since that last time had been as John was being stretchered out, not very far from death, the fact the he looked better now made sense.

Though, honestly, John didn’t think he felt all that much better. There were a lot of ways to be dead, he’d discovered.

Donnelly didn’t seem to notice that John hadn’t said a word yet. “Bet you’re glad to be back on your old stomping grounds, eh? Must have the birds lining up for it, right? Gagging to land a bloody war hero doctor.”

John still didn’t say anything.

Donnelly was finally starting to look a little uncomfortable at the one-sided conversation. “So, what’s new?” Then he seemed to remember something. “Hey, saw you all over the papers a few months ago. When that psycho jumped off the building. Lucky escape you had, eh? Who knows what a freak like that might have done?”

John took one more swallow of his lager. Then he stood and pulled his coat on, before executing a crisp military turn and marching out of the pub.

**********


	5. 5 DECEMBER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dinner at the Diogenes. And a rather dreadful airplane ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, sue me. It's the holiday season and I wanted some fluffiness amidst the angst. Although, to be honest, it is rather melancholy fluff.

Dinner. It was only dinner.

Greg was not in the least certain that the meal would have happened at all had it been left up to him. He rather suspected that all of his courage as regards this whole…whatever it was had been exhausted just suggesting that first drink. Dinner seemed a step too far.

To be brutally honest about it, Gregory Lestrade had absolutely no bloody idea what he was doing. It had been a long time since his brief stint at uni and one or two [all right, three] encounters with a football mate named Douglas.

Now they were having drinks for the third time and it was Mycroft who, after taking a somewhat larger swallow than usual of the whiskey, said, “The chef here does a very credible job. Would you like to join me for dinner?”

Greg swallowed his own drink quickly and then nodded. “That would be very nice.”

Mycroft gave a distinctly Holmesian smirk. “It will certainly compare most favorably to whatever frozen concoction you are planning to put into the microwave,” he said tartly.

“Oi,” Greg protested. “I might have gone out for the evening special at the Duck and Dog, you know.”

Mycroft raised a brow. “On a Wednesday? You would be taking a significant risk with the chili con carne, I fear.”

“How do you---no, never mind. I should know better than to ask. You are a Holmes after all.” Greg winced visibly. //The// Holmes. Mycroft was the only Holmes now.

Thankfully, Mycroft didn’t seem to notice what he’d said.

The trout with almonds and the raspberry crumble were, as promised, quite delicious. And if Greg felt just a little guilty over the fact that during the meal, although the two men talked about a great many things, there was not a single mention of John Watson, he decided not to worry about it at the moment.  
*****  
Sherlock Holmes was the last man on earth to indulge in nostalgic journeys into the distant past. Never had, never would. [Never say never, young man, Mummy had once warned him.] Mummy was rarely wrong.

He rationalised remembering the recent past because…well, truthfully, he didn’t rationalise it at all. He just did it, because remembering the life he had left behind was the only way to keep himself sane until he got back to London. Reasonably sane, anyway.

But he never meandered through the memories of his childhood.

Of course, that was before he found himself on a tiny aeroplane that seemed to be made of spare parts. And which was being piloted by a one-eyed man who spoke only Croatian. They were heading for a secret airfield outside of Montreal, but Sherlock would not want to give odds on their actual arrival there.

He tried to sleep, but the constant rattling of the cockpit and the mutterings of the pilot were not conducive to rest.

For some reason, Xmas came into his mind. Possibly because of the music coming out of a scratchy cassette player duct taped to the console. Jingle Bells in Croatian was not something he ever needed to hear again.

Xmas at the Holmes estate had always been an elaborate ritual of rich food, fine wine, extravagant gifts and, above all, hypocrisy. Even at the age of seven Sherlock had understood that the entire holiday was, primarily, a giant exercise in political power. It provided the perfect excuse for representatives of various governments and leaders of industry to grovel at the feet of the powerful Holmes family.

Those who worked on the estate would enjoy the many unwanted gifts that were showered on the family. It was quite Victorian, Mycroft always said, to spend Boxing Day distributing the bounty to their employees and the less fortunate of the village.

The Xmas he was seven Sherlock had as usual received a pile of ridiculous gifts, all of which so obviously fell into the category of Boy, Age 7. None of which were suitable for him, of course. No doubt the ordinary children of the village would enjoy them.

Except.

One afternoon as he sneeringly surveyed the pile of gifts relegated to a small room off the kitchen, one thing caught his eye. It was atop the pile of toys apparently acceptable for little boys. Battery-operated vehicles. Three---three!--- footballs, one of which was adorned with the scribbled signatures of people he’d never heard of. A cricket bat with his name inscribed on it. Cricket? Seriously? Sherlock could only shake his head. The single thing he’d asked for, which was waiting under the tree already, was an electronic microscope. This was all such foolishness.

But then he saw what was perched precariously on top of the pile.

Completely ridiculous .

Still, he found himself reaching for it anyway, prepared to scorn. Who on earth needed a soft toy? A stuffed hedgehog, of all things. A stuffed hedgehog that for some strange reason was wearing a silly oatmeal-coloured jumper.

Sherlock sneered into the placid hazel eyes, which just looked back at him equably.

Really, it was unbearably silly.

“You are quite absurd,” Sherlock said scathingly.

The hedgehog didn’t comment.

Sherlock smoothed the jumper. “No one needs you.”

Then he carefully tucked the creature under his shirt and headed for the backstairs which provided the safest route to his room. Once there, he pulled the hedgehog out again. “I will probably dissect you,” he warned. “I will do horrid things to you.”

But instead of reaching for his knife, he wrapped the hedgehog in a warm scarf and put him carefully behind his copy of Grey’s Anatomy. “You’ll be safe there,” he whispered. “I promise.”

Then Sherlock straightened his blazer and headed downstairs for tea.  
*

The hideous aeroplane gave a particularly loud shudder and Sherlock began to contemplate his own death. Again.

**********

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to any Croatian speakers out there. I'm sure that Jingle Bells is lovely in your language. But we know Sherlock is a bit grumpy about things like that.


	6. 6 DECEMBER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is in a good mood. Sort of. John takes a walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I can hear you asking, after soft toys and cozy hedgehogs, what on earth comes next? You probably sneer and suggest something ridiculous like...Father Christmas.
> 
> I refuse to apologise.

Anthea was watching him curiously.

She knew her boss very well and usually felt herself to be quite aware of his moods. Well, using the plural might be a bit of an overstatement. Mycroft did not really have moods in the way most people did. He was eternal.

Oh, it was true that on several occasions she had seen a flash of what might have been called emotion in his face. Once, after a very long interrogation session with that madman Moriarty, she had seen something in Mycroft’s eyes, something that in any other person she would have called fear.

There was also an almost invisible expression of grief when Sherlock jumped off the hospital roof and they thought he was dead. And several hours later, when the truth was known [to Mycroft, at least, and to her because in order to help she had to know] he’d simply closed his eyes for a moment. His lips moved, but no words emerged.

So. The not-so-many moods of Mycroft Holmes.

But this morning was different and Anthea was more than a little puzzled. Her boss was not smug, exactly, or no more smug than usual anyway. Finally, she had to speak.

“Did you have a pleasant evening, sir? Do something special?”

He glanced at her and raised a brow. “Simply dinner at my club,” he murmured. “The trout was lovely.” He was again looking at the papers on his desk. “And I am fond of raspberry crumble. A pleasant meal.”

She only nodded.

As she said every time she spoke to her mother, working for Mycroft Holmes was never boring.

*****

Well, this was a first.

Admittedly, one saw a lot of odd people wandering about in late-night London. John had seen enough drunks and druggies and whores of every stripe to populate a small country. He’d seen homeless people sleeping, sobbing, and having sex.

It seemed inevitable, given what he knew of Sherlock’s life before they’d met, that he so often seemed to see a tall, pale spirit moving through the streets. A lonely spirit. John knew very well, although no one had ever voiced the fact, that, like him, Sherlock had been lonely before they’d met. Even if he refused to acknowledge it.

But despite all that John had seen on his walks, he’d never before shared a bus shelter with Father Christmas.

John was not waiting for a bus. He was just sitting on the cold metal bench for a bit, trying to work up the energy to trudge back to Baker Street. Not the physical energy, no, but the emotional energy to allow him to put one foot in front of the other for ten blocks and then to climb those seventeen steps.

He barely glanced up as someone else sat on the other end of the bench, and it took several moments before his mind caught up to what his eyes had glimpsed.

Father---bleeding---Christmas was sitting there, big as life. He was even puffing on a pipe, which undoubtedly violated several statutes. Still, who was going to give an ASBO to---

Well, of course, it wasn’t really Father Christmas, John knew that, even if his grip on sanity was just a bit tenuous these days. But he sure did look the part. Being, as required, plump and rosy-cheeked and…jolly. John was just glad that he could still recognise jolliness when he saw it.

The old man turned his head and smiled. “Hello, John,” he said.

The voice was kind, but John only blinked. Father Christmas knew his name?

Then reason kicked it. John was still frequently recognized on the street. Most times whoever it was that noticed him would just stare. Sometimes they would give him a nod. Rarely, but still often enough to cause a stabbing pain, the stranger would say something. Once in a while it would be something nice. “Sorry for you.” Or something of the sort. But there were other times the words would be cruel. Cruel about Sherlock. Or about him for being a fool.

But Father Christmas wouldn’t say things like that, surely.

“You should be tucked up in bed, John, not sitting out here in the cold.”

“You’re sitting here,” John pointed out. Maybe it was a former patient he just couldn’t recognise behind the beard.

“Ah, well, busy time of the year for me.”

John just grunted. This was ridiculous. He really had to just go back to the flat and have a stiff drink. Or two. Or at least a cup of very strong tea. He tugged his coat more tightly around himself and stood.

“What would you like for Christmas, John?” The question was asked just as if John were a little boy sitting on the lap of a department store Father Christmas.

John just stared at him.

After a moment, the old man nodded. “I know,” he said. “I know.”

Maybe this was one of Mycroft’s spies. That made sense. As much as anything did. John just huffed and walked away. He turned around once, just in time to see the strange old man board a Night Bus.

Yeah, right. Father Christmas rode a Night Bus.

John shoved his hands into his pockets and quickened his stride.

**********


	7. 7 DECEMBER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft takes steps. Sherlock carries on, despite the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, hope everyone is having a nice weekend. As for me, I just saw some new pix from season 3 released by the BBC and my mind is more muddled than ever. They are just trying to make me crazy, aren't they?
> 
> On the upside, both boys look lovely.
> 
> Oh, haven't mentioned in a while that I don't own these guys. If I did...well, we all know what I'd have them doing, don't we?

It was his bad luck to be surrounded by detectives, by nature a curious lot.

Which he certainly should have expected. It was, after all, a crime scene. A brightly lit, noisy, and very crowded crime scene.

While he was standing there, Mycroft had an unexpected and rather unsettling moment. Out of the corner of one eye, he almost thought he could see a tall, lanky form, swishing around in a ridiculously dramatic coat, followed closely by the short and sturdy figure of a guardian angel, who never lost sight of his careless charge. Who watched all the time, even when he must have wanted only to shut his eyes as tightly as possible and not see what was happening.

Mycroft blinked and the image vanished.

His gaze flickered over the crowded scene in search of one particular face.

“Help you?” said a voice that sounded a lot less polite than the words implied.

Without even turning to look, he knew who it was. “Sergeant Donovan,” he purred.

“Oh,” now she sounded startled. “It’s you.”

In another mood, he might have found her lack of deference refreshing, but the fleeting image of his brother and John Watson was too fresh in his mind to forget that she had played a not insignificant part in what had happened that day. [Not as significant a part as his own had been, of course, but at least he suffered the pangs of guilt. She seemed unrepentant.]

“I was hoping for a word with Detective Inspector Lestrade. If it is not a terrible inconvenience.”

She took several steps away. “Sir, Freak’s brother is here.”

“Shut up, Donovan,” came Lestrade’s voice from inside the crime scene tent.

“Oh, no worry,” Mycroft said. “I wear the appellation proudly.”

Donovan snorted, but moved away as Lestrade emerged from the tent.

Mycroft was a little startled by the almost smile that seemed to appear on his own lips. “Hello,” he said.

Lestrade nodded. “Sorry about this evening,” he said. “I’m going to be tied up here for quite awhile yet.”

“Never mind. I was merely in the area…” Well, yes, he was, but only because he’d told the driver to bring him here. “I just thought to say that if you would like a drink when you’re all finished, come to my flat.” He handed Lestrade a card. “I never retire before midnight.”

Lestrade studied the card.

Everyone else seemed to be trying to look as if they were not watching. Which they most certainly were.

Mycroft realised that this was definitely not on. He bent his head in silent apology to Greg and walked back to the car.

To his surprise, before he could close the door, Greg was standing there. “That drink,” he said. “I’ll try to get there.”

“Good.” Mycroft settled back into the soft leather as the car pulled away.

*****

Sherlock had never believed that the world was a fair place. That, however, did not prevent him from being irritated at this particular bit of unfairness. In what universe did it seem equitable that he found himself standing in a dark and stinking alley, being rained on and feeling absolutely miserable, while across the road a notorious bomb maker was sitting in a candlelit four-star restaurant dining on prime rib?

No universe at all, was his opinion.

Yet here he was and there sat Moriarty’s bomb builder having dinner n the front window of the busy restaurant.

Sherlock tried to huddle a little more under the skimpy awning as the chilly rain continued to drip down his neck.

“Hey, man, you got a smoke?” The voice was young, faintly accented.  
Sherlock barely glanced down at the boy, who looked even younger than his voice sounded. Wet blond-brown hair lay plastered to his head. With his own supply of cigarettes running low, Sherlock was not inclined to share, but something in the boy’s open face and guileless hazel eyes made him reach for the pack in his pocket. He took out one for himself as well and lit them both.

The boy did not move off, no doubt hoping for a little shelter under the inadequate awning as well. They stood side by side, smoking, as Sherlock continued to watch the scene across the road.

“Must be nice,” the boy said after a moment. He’d apparently been watching as well.

The bomb maker was sitting with a willowy redhead in a low-cut dress. She leaned forward a little to listen to him as the sommelier poured them more wine. The man laughed at his own words. The woman gave a pained smile.

Sherlock could have told the boy that the man he was observing, who had ambitions of taking over the entire empire of the late and unlamented James Moriarty, would be dead in a few hours. But he didn’t say that, of course. He just inhaled, exhaled, and watched.

After another few minutes, the boy grunted in apparent thanks and sloped off into the darkness.

Alone again, Sherlock watched as a massive tower of ice cream and strawberries was set on the table.

It kept raining.

**********


	8. 8 DECEMBER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has a visitor. John starts to think about magic tricks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope folks are enjoying these little pieces of holiday cheer. Holiday angst. Holiday romance

If anyone was going to show up rather intoxicated, pounding on his front door and shouting at 0300, this was not the person he would have preferred it to be. Luckily the penthouse was isolated enough so his neighbors would not be disturbed.

Mycroft tied the belt to his dressing gown as he headed for the door. Security would have been watching his unexpected visitor from the time he’d reached the pavement in front of the building, but their orders were clear. If this particular visitor ever turned up, day or night, and no matter his condition, they were to allow him to pass freely. The locks would be deactivated and the lift made available.

Not that he ever really thought this man would actually come to what he no doubt saw as the enemy camp.

But now he had arrived.

After a deep breath, Mycroft opened the door. “Hello, John,” he murmured. “How nice of you to drop in.”

“Bastard,” John replied. Truthfully, he seemed only mildly invested in the insult and while certainly drunk, perhaps not quite as impaired as the pounding and shouting might have implied. He sauntered [the only appropriate word] through the foyer and into the den, the sole room with light.

Mycroft followed, pausing to flick on the electric fire. “I would offer you a drink, but you seem to have been well-supplied already. Perhaps some coffee?”

“I don’t want anything from you,” John replied pugnaciously, dropping into the over-stuffed leather chair.

“Then why are you here, if it’s not too rude for me to inquire?”

“I’m drunk.”

“Yes, I had noticed.”

John shot him a grim look. “Not like my bloody sister. I am not an alcoholic.”

“I know that, John. To my certain knowledge you have not been drunk since…” Mycroft let his voice trail off.

“In vino veritas,” John said suddenly.

“Occasionally. What truth have you discovered?”

John stretched his legs towards the warmth of the fire. “I’ve been thinking about Sherlock,” he said quietly.

“Do you ever think about anything else?” Mycroft said, the words coming out more kindly than he had perhaps intended them to.

John’s mouth quirked upwards. “Not often. Everything else is grey.”

Mycroft thought about that for a moment. He considered his dinner with Greg. Had everything seemed more vivid than usual? Then he gave his head a small shake. Stay in the moment, he thought irritably.

John was staring into the flames. “I’ve been wondering. Something he said on the roof. It was a trick, he said. Just a magic trick. What do you think he meant by that?”

“I have no idea. He was upset. You were upset.” Mycroft was not startled by what John was thinking. Frankly, he was a little surprised that it had taken him this long. It was a rather blatant hint that Sherlock had given him.

“Just a trick,” John whispered. Then he was quiet for so long that Mycroft wondered if he’d fallen asleep. But finally he stood, wobbled just for a moment, and then squared his shoulders. “I don’t expect you to tell me anything right now,” he said, still speaking quietly. “Mostly I just wanted you to know that I’m thinking. That’s all. I’m just having lots of thoughts.”

Mycroft stood as well. “I could call my car to take you home.”

John shook his head. “I need the air,” he said. “I’ll walk.” He zipped his jacket closed against the night air and started for the door.

“John,” Mycroft said.

“What?”

“Think all you want. Think whatever you want. But it would be a good thing if you kept your thoughts to yourself.” That was as much as Mycroft thought he should say at the moment. He thought of those posters from the war. //Loose lips sink ships//. Or avenging consulting detectives, possibly.

John stared at him for a long moment, before nodding.

A moment later, Mycroft was alone. He sighed.

The pleasant memory of the dinner he’d had earlier with Greg was diminished by this new concern. Secrets corrupted everything, thought the man who loved secrets.

Sometimes it was wearying to be him.

*****

John rolled over and blinked up at the ceiling. Then he turned his head to look at the periodic table chart on the wall. He wondered if anyone other than Mrs. Hudson knew that he now slept in Sherlock’s bed.

Possibly Mycroft knew, because Mycroft knew everything.

Then John groaned as he remembered the previous night. It was probably not a good idea to go round to the British government’s home and pound on the door drunkenly. It occurred to him, as it had not done the night before, that it shouldn’t have been so easy. Which undoubtedly meant that a memo had gone out. //If a drunk John Watson shows up, let him pass.//

That was annoying.

And, of course, he hadn’t been nearly as inebriated as appearances might have indicated. The whole point of the exercise had been to let Mycroft know that John Watson was starting to think again. Belatedly, yes, but his mind was working again.

“Yahoo, John?” It was Mrs. Hudson, arriving to collect him for their weekly breakfast date. She asked very little of him, save that every Wednesday he go with her to Speedy’s for eggs and bacon. Most often on these occasions, she did all the talking while he pushed bits of scrambled egg around on the plate to make it look as if he was actually eating.

“I’ll be there in a couple of minutes!” John called out. He heard her go back down the stairs slowly, undoubtedly relieved that he was still breathing.

He pushed himself off the bed and headed for the bathroom. Not just breathing, he realised. Also thinking.

He was thinking.

**********


	9. 9 DECEMBER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brotherly conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With every bit of season 3 info they release, it all gets more muddled. But I think we're in for some major angst and more than one broken heart. And this tale [along with all the rest I've written and will write] becomes sort of AU. Which it pretty much already is, so I'm fine with that.
> 
> Hope you are enjoying this bit of holiday cheer. [Well, there will be cheer! Promise.]

The telephone call was late.

Mycroft was not, by nature, a worrier; how could he be, given the life he chose to live? But he felt more than a little unsettled at the moment, although very few people in the world would have realised that fact by looking at him. His demeanor was as unruffled as ever.

But the truth was, Sherlock had been very good about the weekly call. It was the one and only concession that he was willing to make in exchange for the financial and logistical assistance Mycroft was providing as he carried out his quixotic mission. One weekly telephone call, on a different untraceable burn phone each time, just to let his brother know he was still alive.

Although he would never have said so, Mycroft depended on the calls. He was under no illusions about why the routine was so sacrosanct to his brother. Sherlock obviously begrudged the report he made each week. Vague mentions of where he was. How the search for Moriarty’s hired killers was progressing. Who had been alive the previous week, but was now dead. It was all related in a distant, almost bored tone. No, the real reason Sherlock was so conscientious about calling would only be revealed once everything else was said.

“How is John?” he would ask each week.

Mycroft was always torn. He had no wish to make things more difficult for a man already living under unbelievable stress, but at the same time he could not bring himself to lie and paint a rosy picture about how things were going for the doctor. “John, is struggling,” he would say. “But he is still focused on clearing your name.” This week he would add something new. “John is starting to wonder,” he would say.

Sherlock would no doubt just listen in silence and then he would end the call without responding at all, as always.

Mycroft glanced at the silent telephone again. Forty minutes late.

Anthea brought him a cup of tea. She set it down, almost said something, but then just left him to keep waiting.

Mycroft took a careful sip of the hot brew.

The private line rang.

His hand, as he reached for the telephone, was steady. “Hello, Sherlock,” he said.

*****

Sherlock barely managed to hit the End Call button on his latest throwaway mobile before falling back onto the lumpy, bug-ridden mattress again.

Obviously Mycroft was slipping.

If his brother had been operating at his usual level it would not have been so easy to fool him into thinking that everything was all right. He’d obviously been worried that the call was somewhat later than usual, but beyond that Mycroft had simply taken what Sherlock said at face value.

Another fit of shaking from the chills overtook Sherlock. He wrapped both arms around himself and tried not to throw up again. The tiny room already reeked of vomit and sweat. His head was pounding.

Even his hair hurt.

But all of that seemed to pale in significance when compared to what Mycroft had---with obvious reluctance---told him. John was starting to wonder. His brother was worried that a wondering John would do something stupid.

Mycroft had always underestimated John Watson. Even knowing his military history, Mycroft seemed to be as taken in as everyone else by the jumpers and the tea making and the pleasant smile. //Am I the only one who sees the real John Watson?// Although on some level, that made sense, since John was the only one who really knew Sherlock Holmes.

Admittedly, John was not a genius, but---

Before Sherlock could finish that thought, his guts roiled once more and he hung off the bed to vomit yet again.

**********


	10. 10 DECEMBER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade dithers. John runs. And runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all. Hopefully you are having a better day than I! What was supposed to be an annual checkup on my furnace has turned into a situation where the technician refused to turn it back on because of the danger. So now Watson and I will pass the coldest night so far this winter with only our electric fire. And tomorrow I will be writing a cheque for a whole new furnace.
> 
> If it weren't for season three, I might be questioning the worth of going on!

Well, this was never going to be a good idea, was it?

Lestrade was aware of receiving more than one sneaky glance as he walked through the squad room, heading to his office. Apparently the surprising visit of the British government to a rather mundane gang killing crime scene had occasioned some curiosity. Good god, coppers were worse than little old ladies when it came to gossip. No one seemed able to understand why Mycroft Holmes had appeared, exchanged some quiet words with the detective inspector, and then vanished again.

He did wonder if perhaps he ought to be a little irritated about it. After all, he didn’t suddenly just pop into Whitehall to discuss dinner plans, did he? How would Mycroft feel about it if he did? But, in the end, he realised that he just didn’t mind all that much.

Which should have told him something, right? What, exactly, he wasn’t sure.

Of course, it was always going to be Donovan who would be the one to stick her nose in where it definitely did not belong. Some things never changed. He was skimming some crime statistics reports when she came into his office and dropped into the chair opposite his desk. “So,” she said. “Are we now going to be stuck with the Freak’s brother unexpectedly popping up at crime scenes?”

Greg finished the paragraph he was reading before lifting his gaze to focus on her. “The man is dead, Sergeant,” he said. “Don’t you think you could leave off the name-calling now?”

She ignored his words. “I had an uncle who killed himself,” she said. “I always thought he was a coward for doing that. People who top themselves are afraid of life. So for all his big talk and bragging about how smart he was, Sherlock Holmes was just one more weak man who couldn’t face what he’d done.”

“Never mind,” Greg said wearily. “Just let him rest in peace, can’t you?”

“Anyway, I was asking about the other one. Why was he at our crime scene, anyway?”

He tried to think of some excuse, before deciding what the hell. “None of your bloody business,” he said sharply.

She gave a sniff and left.

Greg rested his head in his hands and wondered if he might be losing his mind. That seemed the simplest explanation for something that was starting to seem like a very bad idea.

*****

John never really decided to do it.

Not as such anyway. He did not sit down in front of the fire and have a good think about it. Instead, late one night, he simply found himself lacing up his shoes tightly, donning his jacket, and then hurrying down the stairs. In his excitement, he forgot to go quietly, but Mrs. Hudson must have been engrossed in one of her late night television programmes, as she did not poke her head out to see where he was going.

He was glad not to have to explain himself, because there really was no explaining this. Not rationally, anyway.

John just stood on the pavement for a moment, taking a few deep breaths. He was rather out of shape, because he had not had the opportunity to chase a madman around London for far too long a time.

Finally, he began to run.

Because it was late and quite cold, there were few pedestrians out and about. So John ran. And ran. He passed Angelo’s, now dark and silent. He galloped up some stairs and across rooftops, jumping through space like a man who had not seen his best friend plunge from a building. He ran through Regent’s Park, along the canal, remembering more than one sunny afternoon as they walked and Sherlock talked his way through the latest case. Genius needed an audience and that was John Watson’s role.

Some of the time, he pretended to be chasing a lanky git in a swirling coat and that thought made him grin helplessly. Then he imagined that if he just ran fast enough and far enough he would be able to save Sherlock Holmes. And also save one John Hamish Watson. So with a kind of quiet desperation, he ran faster and harder, ignoring his aching legs and pounding heart.

John Watson ran.

Deep inside, he hoped that maybe if he ran all the way back to Baker Street, up those seventeen steps, through the door of 221B, he would find Sherlock waiting for him.  
**********


	11. 11 DECEMBER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fairy lights, misery, and a fortune teller.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't really tell if the month is flying by or creeping by.  
> Not sure it matters. Just taking one day after the other.

There’s miserable and then there’s an evening spent at the pub with the only man on earth more wretched than you.

He hadn’t meant to go to the pub at all. It was just that it was his turn to visit John. Mrs. Hudson met him at the door as he arrived. “John is not here,” she said.

Greg was surprised. John was always home. “What happened?”

Her kindly face was even more melancholy than usual. “He’s had a bad couple of days,” she said. “Worse than usual. I think there were some very unkind remarks about Sherlock online. Poor John takes that kind of thing very much to heart, you know.”

“Yes, he does. Do you know where he went?”

“To the pub.”

That was not especially good news. He’d already heard about John’s late night visit to Mycroft’s. So was alcohol going to feature regularly in this mess now? That was all they needed.

He walked around the corner to the pub, spotting John sitting alone at the back of the room as soon as he walked in. Stopping only long enough to pick up a pint, he walked over and sat down at the table. John scarcely seemed to notice. He looked sober and was barely even sipping at the lager in front of him. 

“If you intend to ask me about my day,” Greg said, “I’ll save you the bother. It has been a crap day. There is nothing good about this day at all. I have two on-going murder investigations that are going nowhere. The arseholes upstairs are eyeing my team for budget cuts. Donovan keeps butting into things that she shouldn’t. And now I find out that the ex is taking my kids to Disney Paris for Xmas with her new boyfriend, so I won’t be seeing them.” He took a gulp of his drink. “And don’t even ask me about my love life.” Which he had not intended to say at all.

But if he were going to say it, he obviously chose the right audience, because John, if he even heard the words, didn’t give a flying damn about them. He was staring at something on the far wall and frowning.

“John? You listening?”

John looked at him as if just noticing that he had company at the table. “I dreamed that Sherlock came back,” he said. “He told me again that it was all just a magic trick. I think he was going to explain everything. But then I woke up.”

Two miserable men sat in a pub and drank their pints under the strands of flickering fairy lights that had been hung from the rafters for the holiday season. It was probably supposed to be cheerful.

*****

Sherlock finally managed to drag himself out of the filthy bed, although his limbs still didn’t want to actually cooperate very much. He packed his bag and checked out of the hostel, wanting to be gone before they noticed the quite disgusting state of the room.

He had only one more appointment and then he would be leaving this city.

A short time later, Sherlock was pacing in front of a ramshackle wooden house and had been for nearly fifteen minutes. He checked the scribbled address three times to be sure he was at the correct place. He was. So apparently he was going to visit Madame RosaBella, Psychic. This was not what he had been expecting.

All he’d been told was that the woman who lived here would have vital information for him.

Hopefully her data did not come from the fairies.

It was only mildly comforting that no one within a thousand miles or so would recognise him, even if they had ever heard of Sherlock Holmes.

That should have been a relief, of course, but oddly, he was beginning to tire of being invisible, even while acknowledging that being unseen and unnoticed was the only way to stay alive.

Finally, he approached the door, determined to get this over with as quickly as possible. With any luck at all, whatever she had to tell him would put home and John that much closer. It seemed unlikely, but then the circus midget had turned out to be very useful, despite his…well, lack of height.

The woman who opened the door looked more like every other tired, middle-aged housewife on the planet than she did either a prophetess or an informant on the secrets of a criminal empire.

“Wilhelm sent me,” Sherlock said, speaking with a faint but definite German accent.

She only nodded and turned to lead him into a tiny, claustrophobic front parlour. In the center of the room there was a round oak table, which held, if it could be believed, a crystal ball and several decks of tarot cards. “Sit, please,” she said.

Sherlock did not sit. “I’m not here for the floor show,” he snapped. “Wilhelm said you had information.”

Ignoring his words, she sat at the table and folded her hands calmly.

After several moments of silence, Sherlock gave a sigh and dropped into the other chair. “All right,” he said. “I’m sitting. Give me what I was promised.”

Still she hesitated, before picking up one of the card decks and slowly shuffling it. “No extra charge for seeing your future,” she said.

“Rubbish. I don’t have time for your games.” He took out a small bundle of Euros. “If you want this…”

She put down several cards and studied them. “Oh,” she said then. “I am sorry for your unhappiness.”

“My---never mind,” Sherlock said. “I am walking out of here unless you have something for me. Now.”

She reached inside the over-sized cardigan and pulled out an envelope. “It is all in here. But be very careful. These are dangerous people.”

He snorted derisively. As if he didn’t know that very well. Sherlock stood without saying anything more and headed for the door.

“Your heart has not been burned out of you,” the woman said quietly.

He stopped, but did not look at her.

“Your heart is waiting for you. Just waiting.”

Sherlock made sure to slam the door as he left.

**********


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft gathers his courage. John is grateful to Mike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the folks who comment. It's cold up here these days and your remarks warm me nicely.

Her Majesty Requests the Honour of Your Presence….

Blah, blah, blah.

Mycroft tossed the gilt-edged invitation down onto his desk impatiently. He would attend the holiday gala, of course he would. Such occasions were not optional in his position. Especially in light of events. He could not afford to be seen as stepping out of the governmental spotlight as if he had something to hide or be ashamed of because of the disaster with Sherlock.

But he really---really--- did not want to go. Things like this bored him.

His patience was even thinner than usual because he was distracted with thoughts of what Sherlock was getting up to. Mycroft had a feeling that things would be coming to an end very soon. Which would lead to a whole new set of complications, of course.

So a party at the palace was the last item he wanted to put on his calendar.

Still…he picked up the embossed card again and fingered it thoughtfully. What he was contemplating would be a major step forward on the rather alarming journey upon which he had recently embarked. Still, it was a journey he thought was the right one for him at this time. So why not take this very big step? When had a Holmes ever failed to take on a challenge? Of course those challenges rarely involved human relationships.

He thought abruptly of Sherlock again. Of how the unexpected friendship with John Watson had changed his brother for the better. That had been an undeniable fact, even if neither of the men had really understood the powerful dynamic that was happening between them. That blindness to reality had been true before the Fall, of course, but he rather thought that both Sherlock and John were wiser now. Hopefully, it wasn’t too late.

The point he was silently grappling with was that Sherlock did not lack courage when it came to what he was willing to do to protect his friend.

So could Mycroft really flinch at a mere social engagement?

He pulled the telephone over and punched in a number that was already as familiar as his own.

“Lestrade,” came the crisp official voice.

“Gregory, do you own a tuxedo?” Mycroft asked in a silken tone.

*****

Mike was persistent.

John kept refusing to meet him for a drink and Mike kept asking. Then it occurred to John that, if not for the other man’s intervention, he never would have met Sherlock.

Theoretically, at least.

Some part of John Watson firmly believed that, one way or another, he was always going to know Sherlock Holmes. Was always going to get his heart broken by the sodding bastard. John also knew that given the choice, he was always going to choose this pain again rather than never to have known Sherlock at all.

The conclusion John finally came to was that at the very least he owed Mike the courtesy of having a drink with him. So one evening, he walked around the corner to the pub, where he found the other man already waiting for him. Mike seemed glad to see him and insisted on buying the first round. Conversation was slow to begin.

John only hoped that no one turned the talk to the subject of Sherlock Holmes, because that sort of conversation never ended well. Mike might well bring up the topic out of clumsy sincerity. He himself might do so because…well, there was really nothing else he wanted to talk about.

At one point, Mike seemed about to steer things in that forbidden direction, but John fixed him with a look and the words faded away.

Instead, they talked about Mike’s kids. Football. Gossip about who was sleeping with whom at Bart’s, a place John never visited anymore.

Finally, as the evening was drawing to a close, Mike seemed to gather his courage and took a deep breath. “John,” he said carefully. “I---”

“Mike,” John interrupted. “I want to thank you.”

Mike looked puzzled. “For the drinks? No problem.”

“Not for the drinks. For introducing me to Sherlock Holmes.”

Mike’s gaze darted to John’s and then away. “I was never sure,” he said slowly, “if that was a good thing or the worst thing I could ever have done to a friend. Considering…everything.”

John smiled so faintly that it could not really be called a smile at all. “Thank you,” he said again, meaning it more than he’d meant anything in a long time.

Then he stood, shook Mike’s hand, and went home.

**********


	13. 13 DECEMBER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson is still alive and Mycroft is glad. Sherlock pays a holiday visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must confess that the second part of this posting [the Sherlock part] is probably one of my favorites. Let me know what you think!

The happiest place on Earth was obviously not here.

John Watson was planted on the settee, arms crossed, frowning fiercely at his unwanted visitor. Mycroft simply sat, unperturbed as ever, brolly tapping lightly on the floor.

It was a puzzle to John why Mycroft and Lestrade persisted in their relentless visiting. He was definitely not a congenial companion. He supposed they came only because it was expected that sooner or later one of them would arrive to find his body. A bullet or pills, that was probably the question they asked themselves. He would have preferred the gun, of course, because it made the whole thing seem more soldier-like.

But deep inside John there persisted a hint of the man he had once been and that man realised that he undoubtedly knew the person who would be finding his body. Whether it was Mycroft or Lestrade or even, god forbid, Mrs. Hudson, not one of them deserved to be forced into confronting an unnecessarily bloody scene. Pills would be tidier. He didn’t know if he’d ever actually do it, but it was comforting to think about sometimes.

Mycroft sighed. “John, no one wants to come in here one day soon and find you dead, you must know that.”

John smirked. God, the Holmes boys. Each as annoying as the other. “Well, it would release you all of the tedious duty of visiting me, wouldn’t it?”

“I do not find it tedious coming to see you. I do it…” Mycroft paused, uncharacteristically searching for the right word. “I do it for Sherlock,” he finished, deciding, also rather uncharacteristically to just speak the simple truth.

“Who is beyond caring,” John snapped. Then his eyes narrowed. “Isn’t he?”

Mycroft actually shifted his gaze, but said nothing.

“I’m still thinking, Mycroft, don’t forget that.”

“Good. Continue to do so.”

“Still keeping those thoughts to myself.”

“I have no doubt.” There was a silence between them. Until: “I’m taking Gregory to a gala at the Palace.” Which was nowhere near what Mycroft had intended to say.

“Gregory? You mean Lestrade?”

“Yes.”

For a fleeting moment, John looked almost amused. Then he leaned back and closed his eyes. “Well, that’s fine. Have a good time. I did, the day we went there.”

*****

There was no danger involved.

I pulled a knitted cap on over my hair and donned a pair of thick eyeglasses coated with a slight tint that would hide the true colour of my eyes. The clothing I was already wearing---a battered pair of Levis, a Boston Red Sox teeshirt from Oxfam, and some hideous trainers---would serve me as a disguise. The subterfuge was only for any members of the staff who might possibly remember me from visits in the past.

As for Mummy, she wouldn’t know me if I walked in wearing a placard proclaiming in flashing lights: MY NAME IS SHERLOCK HOLMES.

To the vigilant nurse on duty, I was Peter Holmes, a nephew come to visit Mrs. Violet Holmes for the holidays.

Mrs. Holmes looked pleased to see her nephew, Peter.

Mummy has no nephews.

I sat in front of her. “Hello, Mummy,” I said quietly, although the nurse was gone.

She, of course, said nothing. She has said nothing for approximately five years and three months.

“I’m so tired,” I told her. “I want to go home.”

A tiny ceramic Xmas tree was blinking away in the corner of her room. Holiday cheer. Mummy would have hated that. It was so tacky. Our trees were always at least ten feet tall and decorated by a designer.  
I leaned closer. “I miss my home, Mummy. All my things. Mrs. Hudson. My experiments.”

Unexpectedly, she reached up with one hand and pushed at a curl that had escaped from the hat. I think she meant to comfort me.

“I miss my friend John,” I whispered to her. “I miss John so much.”

We just sat in silence for a few minutes.

Then I patted her hand and stood. “Best be off, Mummy. I just wanted to wish you a happy Xmas.”

She smiled and nodded, although not really at me or even at anything I’d said.

As a kindness, before I left her room I disconnected the bloody blinking ceramic Xmas tree. She would appreciate that, I’m sure.

**********


	14. 14 DECEMBER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Gregory, you shall go to the ball. Poor Sherlock, not so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you are all enjoying this. I'm having fun.

It came upon a midnight clear. Well, semi-clear. All right, a mostly cloudy midnight. This was London, after all.

Two men in tuxes were walking through St. James Park, ignoring the long black car that was slowly cruising along the nearest roadway. Greg was feeling quite cheerful, due in good part to the several glasses of very nice champagne he’d consumed at the freaking bloody palace. If he were not a respected [well, sometimes, by some people] police detective, he might have giggled just a bit.

As for Mycroft, he was feeling rather pleased with himself as well. It had been quite pleasant to stand next to a decidedly attractive man of the law and have people notice. Greg seemed very much at ease, chatting with any number of high profile movers and shakers. Even Her Majesty appeared to approve, expressing her delight in meeting him, and commenting on one or two of his most famous cases. [It was no doubt deliberate that none of the cases she mentioned had involved Sherlock. The Queen was far from stupid.] Greg had preened a little under the attention.

But putting aside the pleasures of the evening, Mycroft was at the same time rather consumed by worry. About Sherlock, of course. The regular telephone call had not come in at its expected time. And since Anthea had not contacted him during the course of the evening, he knew that it had never come in. Mycroft told himself that Sherlock was fine. He kept telling himself that. He ordered himself to have a good time. And, honestly, he had enjoyed the evening, primarily because Mycroft Holmes was a past master at worrying while carrying on with life. Otherwise, he would have collapsed into a useless heap a very long time ago. He was a man who had wined and dined and thoroughly charmed the female prime minister of an important ally whilst his younger brother was still unconscious from a near fatal drug overdose. Mycroft knew how to cope.

Now they were sauntering along, not even talking very much, but just enjoying one another’s company. Sometimes Greg found it hard to believe that this thoughtful, deliberate man was related to the whirlwind that had been Sherlock. They finally stopped to watch the water for a moment, standing shoulder to shoulder. Mycroft turned his head and their eyes met.

Almost without knowing he was doing it, Mycroft lifted a hand and pressed it against Greg’s cheek. As they continued to look at one another, something indefinable shifted between them.

Then they simply smiled at one another and started walking again.

And Mycroft was not worrying about his wayward little brother. Not much, anyway. He knew what steps needed to be taken immediately and he gestured for the car to come closer. It was a shame to call the evening to a close, but needs must.

*****

This was not supposed to happen.

Not here anyway. This was not a gritty Moscow alleyway. Or a rough Afghan village. This was a civilized Irish village, popular with visiting Americans tracing their roots. The villagers he’d met had been smiling and friendly, even to a surly visitor from London.

And it was not supposed to be happening now.

There was only one more sniper to find. The rest of Moriarty’s organization lay in ruins. Just Fritz Unger left to deal with and Sherlock could go home. Home.

Well, it should be remembered that at the start of this whole enterprise that he’d never really planned on surviving anyway. No matter how much he wanted to. He’d always assumed that the good-bye he’d said to John from Bart’s roof was, indeed, good-bye. He thought that whether he lived or died didn’t matter much. Even to him. As long as he completed the task he’d set himself.

But now, after all he’d been through and all he’d done, Sherlock had, tentatively, dared to imagine a future. A future back in Baker Street. With John beside him.

And how he wanted that.

Sherlock tried to find a more comfortable position, but the cuffs pinning his arms behind his back were too tight and there was no way to alleviate the pain. In addition, his head still throbbed after a blow from the butt of an AK-47.

He knew that just a kilometer down the quiet lane people were drinking their Guinness and playing darts at the pub. No one knew or cared that he was going to die in this cellar.

Well, no one but Fritz Unger and his minions. Unger was the one he’d wanted most of all, of course.

Sherlock could feel blood trickling from his side. The knife poke had been simply meant as a message, but that didn’t make it hurt less.

Oh, what difference did it actually make? Everybody already thought he was dead. John thought so. Although Mycroft kept saying that John was beginning to wonder. It was probably just that he didn’t want to believe Sherlock was actually gone, not that he was having any real doubt about it. John cared for him. John might even love him.

Sherlock took a deep, shuddering breath.

Yesterday he was supposed to have called Mycroft. His brother would be worried; the last he knew, Sherlock had been safe in Dublin.

Suddenly, he heard a soft, rusty creak that sounded as if it came from the lone window in the corner of the cellar. Sherlock managed to twist his head just in time to see a figure dressed in black slip in through the window. He moved silently to where Sherlock was and as if by magic the cuffs were gone.

A mouth was pressed to his ear. “Your brother,” the whisper said.

Sherlock just nodded. With a little help, he managed to stand and follow the man through the window and into the darkness.

**********


	15. 15 DECEMBER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade is curious. John gets a friend. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will not apologise. Anyone who read the hedgehog story should not be surprised. Anybody who knows me should not be surprised.

Honesty is the best policy.

Usually.

It was late and they were sitting in Mycroft’s office, chatting easily about nothing at all really. Surprising how pleasant that could be.

Mycroft was also trying not to think about the fact that just an hour ago he’d had a phone call from Sherlock, although it was not at the usual scheduled time.

“Calling to thank me for the last minute rescue?” Mycroft asked in a voice that was much lighter than his actual mood.

Sherlock just made a dismissive noise. “Actually, I’m calling to tell you that Fritz Unger is dead,” he’d said then, his voice devoid of any emotion at all.

“By your hand?”

“Literally,” Sherlock replied. “He was the sniper who targeted John. I wanted him to know very well who was killing him. And exactly why.”

Mycroft was watching the seconds tick down on the wall clock. “I would like to hear the details.”

“Boring,” Sherlock said. “He came to kill me. I killed him first. If you must know, it was a single shot to the back of his head. Not gentlemanly, I suppose, but terribly efficient.” He paused, before continuing thoughtfully, “I think John would have approved my marksmanship.”

“No doubt. Are you finished, then?“

“Moran is still out there. But I will keep looking. He might even be in London. But he undoubtedly knows that I am alive by now, which makes it unnecessary for me to keep hiding. So, yes, I am finished. The three assassins are dead and everyone else is either dead or otherwise neutralised.”

Mycroft gave a faint sigh that he rather hoped Sherlock didn’t hear. “Then you will be home soon.”

There was a pause.

Mycroft, of course, knew exactly what his brother was thinking. “Your return is not optional,” he said sharply.

“And what kind of reception will I receive?”

“Who knows? But I rather think that is not your decision to make, is it?”

There was a pause and then the usual question.

“How is John? Still wondering?”

“Oh, no, he has moved beyond that. Now he is beginning to doubt.”

Mycroft was sure he did not imagine the soft gasp at those words.

“Me?” Sherlock whispered. “He’s beginning to doubt me?”

“Oh, no, of course not,” Mycroft said scornfully. “Never that, from John Watson. You should know the man.”

“I do. I did. Then what is he doubting?”

“What he thought was reality. That you died that day.”

There was a hollow silence and then Sherlock ended the call.

Now Mycroft stared across the table at Greg. They had not talked about that moment in St. James Park. It didn’t seem necessary. Nor had they touched again. There was to be no headlong dash into something before they were both ready.

But now Greg was watching him as if he were a crime scene. “What is going on, Mycroft?” he asked softly. “You seem distracted. Unless it’s some great governmental secret you can’t talk about with a lowly Met officer.”

Mycroft gave a small shake of his head. “No, nothing like that. I…” He only smiled. “Not now. Soon, Greg, I promise.”

Greg still looked curious, but he didn’t say anything else.

“Thai for dinner, do you think?” Mycroft cursed his own cowardice. Greg would have to know the truth very soon, but not being able to predict his reaction made Mycroft reluctant to threaten the fragile beginning of what was happening between them.

Soon.

*****

 

The tearoom was crowded with weary Xmas shoppers and tourists, mostly Americans and Japanese, who apparently thought that London during the holidays was a nice place to be. They were mistaken, at least in John’s opinion.

He was already in a bad mood when he arrived [although John could not actually remember when he’d last been in a good mood] and having to wend his way through the small tables and the shopping bags propped against the chairs did nothing to improve his attitude.

He should not have come, but Harry had gotten upset and said it was Xmas and he was all the family she had left. On and on she’d gone, until he finally said all right, he’d meet her for a bloody cup of tea.

It had seemed the easiest thing to do. Although now that he was here, it didn’t seem so easy.

Harry had a wrapped box on the table in front of her. John realised that he had no gift for her, which probably should have made him feel badly about the kind of brother he was.

But he didn’t feel badly about it. He felt nothing at all really, except irritation that she had basically blackmailed him into coming.

She poured him some tea and then spread cream and jam onto a scone and set it on a plate in front of him. He ignored the scone, but took a small sip of the tea.

“Oh, this is lovely, isn’t it?” Harry said cheerfully.

Harry should not do cheerful, John decided. She could not really carry it off while sober. He made a vague grunt in response. The conversation was solely on her part, which was fine. She was the one who’d wanted this family reunion, after all.

“Have any plans for the day itself?” she asked finally.

“Plans?” John said blankly. What was she on about now?

“Christmas Day, John,” she said irritably. “Or Christmas Eve, if you’d rather. I thought---”

“I have plans,” he said quickly.

“What plans?”

He didn’t answer.

Harry sighed and shoved the wrapped package closer.

He just looked at it.

Harry sighed irritably. “I didn’t buy it,” she said. I was just going through a box of things from home when I found this. I thought you--- Just open it, John.”

He ripped away the paper and lifted the lid off the small box. Inside, nestled in a nest of holiday paper, was a small soft toy. An otter with a jaunty scarf around his neck. The fur was still soft and the eyes still glittered. John couldn’t stop looking at the cheerful face.

“I just thought you might like to have him. I remember how much you…” Her words dwindled off.

John did not say anything. But he did drink the tea and eat half of the scone.

When he was back in Baker Street, John tucked the otter under his pillow on Sherlock’s bed.

**********


	16. 16 DECEMBER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ultimatums and snipers. Just what the holidays need, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The days dwindle down...

No one wants an ultimatum in their Xmas stocking, do they?

Despite having no wish at all to be a Scrooge, Greg was completely out of patience. There was obviously something going on with Mycroft and it was not just this thing happening between them. Vague whispers of anticipation seemed to be drifting all across London.

Of course, secrets were probably part and parcel of dating the British government, but it was still damned irritating.

[Oh, and by the way, he needed to take a couple of minutes sometime soon and think seriously about the whole dating-the-British-government thing in more detail.]

But right at the moment, he had his hardest copper gaze fixed on the man he seemed to be getting into a relationship with. [More thought necessary.] “Mycroft,” he said again. “Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on with you? Does it have to do with---” He made a vague gesture at the space between them. “With this?”

Mycroft just shook his head.

“Then I don’t know what to say, because it’s definitely affecting you. Me. Us. So I really feel like it’s something I need to know.”

Mycroft raised a brow. “Or?”

Greg just shrugged.

“Tomorrow,” Mycroft said after a moment. “Once a few details are taken care of.”

Greg nodded.

*****

 

Mycroft seemed convinced that Seb Moran was in London and he therefore was exerting his [considerable] power to find the sniper and neutalise him before my return. I had issued an entirely unveiled threat about what I would do should any harm befall John Watson.

Mycroft knew enough to take me seriously.

But while my brother is efficient, he is still not, despite his own opinion, infallible.

So when I became aware that someone was watching me eat lunch in a pub near the safe house, I began to pay more attention to my surroundings. [Obviously, I should not have left the safe house, but my boredom had reached a dangerous level and Mycroft had been so sure Moran was in London.]

The man undoubtedly thought that he was being discreet, sitting behind a pillar and wearing a baseball cap. There was something familiar about him, but it took me a moment to realise what it was.

Definitely not his theoretical and generic ‘good looks’. He was just one more muscular blond with a weak chin and an obvious need to over-compensate for other shortcomings, which explained the large handgun he probably thought was hidden well beneath his waxed jacket.

No, what I recognized about Moran [and I was sure this was him] was something more amorphous. An attitude and one I had seen so often before. In John Watson. A watchfulness. A calm tension that could erupt into efficient, deadly violence in an instant.

I carefully added some more mustard to my gammon sandwich with one hand while, below the table, I wrote a short and pointed text to the British government.

MORAN NOT IN LONDON.  
HERE.

I took a bite and chewed thoughtfully as my finger hit send.

**********


	17. 17 DECEMBER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has complications. Sherlock considers morality and romance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I don't own them. Sadly.  
> Hope this is entertaining you all in this stressful season.

On the other hand, maybe this was the best idea ever.

Greg found himself whistling rather cheerfully at several points during the day, which caused any number of people to eye him suspiciously. As a group, coppers tended toward that sort of thing.

Finally he cast an irritated glance at Donovan. “What,” he said, “a man can’t get into the Xmas spirit occasionally? Even when he’s surrounded by murder and mayhem?”

“You do tend more towards the humbug end of the holidays usually,” she pointed out, not incorrectly. Then she fixed him with a knowing stare. “Seems to me you’re acting very much like…well, like a man in love.”

Greg chose not to answer. Instead he flipped open yet another case file and settled down to read it. Only a few hours now until he’d be seeing Mycroft and finding out the secret that seemed to be haunting the other man. And then they could see what might happen next.

It was a moment later when his phone rang. Mycroft, sounding stressed, was calling to cancel their plans for the night.

“This isn’t just a way of getting out of talking to me about what’s bothering you, is it?” he asked suspiciously. [After all, he was a cop.]

“No, absolutely not. This is just…a problem. Some complications have come up that require my immediate attention.”

“All right. Well, to make up for this, you’ll have to come to the department Xmas party. After all, you took me to Buckingham Palace.”

Mycroft, despite the tension he was obviously feeling, gave a soft chuckle. “I shall look forward to it.”

*****

Sherlock could not believe that it was over. Well, mostly over. He’d spent much too long back in the putative safe house while Mycroft made desperate efforts to find Moran. The waiting chafed, but he passed much of the time thinking back over the confrontation with Unger

In the end, it had been almost too simple. Although it had not quite gone the way he’d led Mycroft to believe. Unger begged and pleaded and tried to deal, but he was lying face down in the snow, with Sherlock’s knee pressed into his spine. Sherlock was not interested in conversing with him. He said only a few words. “I am Sherlock Holmes,” he said softly. “And you are a dead man because you intended to kill John Watson.” Then he pushed the gun barrel into Unger’s head and pulled the trigger. No challenge at all, but he still thought John would approve of his marksmanship. If not necessarily his sense of morality. But it seemed unlikely that John still held any misconceptions on that score.

As satisfying as his confrontation with Unger had been, Sherlock did not intend to play any games at all with Sebastian Moran.

Moriarty’s man wanted to kill first Sherlock and then John. For him, it was just an unfinished job. Or perhaps some strange loyalty to Moriarty. Didn’t matter. There was nothing that was going to save his life.

In a way that was probably a bit not good, it almost pleased Sherlock that all of Mycroft’s efforts to locate Moran had failed. Now it was nearly midnight and Sherlock was sitting not in the safe house itself at all, but in a long abandoned outhouse. He watched with interest as the furtive figure moved from tree to tree in a careful approach to the empty house.

John would definitely be proud of the single shot Sherlock took as Moran started to climb in through the window. The man was dead before he hit the ground.

Sherlock didn’t even look at the body as he went back into the house.

The next text was brief. MORAN DEAD. HOME. NOW.

Then he waited some more. Soon he would be back in London. Seeing John again.

Hopefully. If John had any interest at all in seeing the friend who had betrayed his trust so completely by telling him the worst lie possible.

Sherlock finally heard the sound of a car approaching.

As he hoisted his bag, one thought was uppermost in his mind. What he really wanted to do when he got back to London was to woo John Watson. Sherlock refused to be embarrassed by that idea, no matter how ridiculous it might be. He was going home at last and after all he’d been through, all he had been forced to do, there was no way he would not fight for what he wanted.

And what he wanted most was John Watson.

**********


	18. 18 DECEMBER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson carries on. Mycroft likes Garabaldi biscuits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to again thank my lovely commenters, who always cheer me greatly.

There is no Xmas in this place.

Not yet. Maybe never.

Not because of a lack of effort. Mrs. Hudson was trying. She remained determinedly cheerful as she finished decorating the small tabletop tree she had insisted upon bringing in for John.

The man himself barely seemed to even notice that she was there, despite the constant chatter. He was hunched over the computer, occasionally mumbling.

It sounded to the landlady as if he kept repeating, “a magic trick, a magic trick”, but that made no sense at all, so he must have been saying something else.

“Damn Mycroft,” he did say quite clearly at one point.

“John,” she reprimanded him gently. “It’s almost Xmas.”

“What?” he said, not even looking in her direction.

“I said, it’s almost Xmas. You should try to…”

John leaned back suddenly. “Yes, it is almost Xmas, isn’t it? Things happen at this time of the year.”

Mrs. Hudson looked pleased. “See, that cheers you up a bit, doesn’t it?”

But then his shoulders slumped. “Why should I care? What do I have to look forward to?” Now he did look at her. “I’m sorry,” he said, not even sure what he was apologising for.

She pushed a button and the little tree was suddenly a splash of brightness in the room. “Sherlock wouldn’t want you to be so unhappy, John,” she whispered.

He gave her a ghastly smile. “Then he should stop being dead, shouldn’t he? “

They both heard the noisy clatter of Lestrade’s shoes on the stairs.

“Good god. Must someone come by to annoy me every day now?”

“I’ll get your tea,” Mrs. Hudson said quickly, heading for the door.

John just looked at the computer screen again.

*****

 

Mycroft was not the kind of man [had never been the kind of man or boy before that] to high five anyone at a moment of excitement or victory. Therefore, when Sherlock’s text came through to inform him that Moran was dead, apparently shot by Sherlock himself, which seemed entirely appropriate, he did not exhibit any emotion, beyond a slight twitch of his lips. 

Even the next text, letting him know that Sherlock was in a car with three agents, on his way to the airport, elicited nothing more than light sigh and a brief clenching of the fingers resting on the desk.

Only Anthea heard the sigh and saw the slender fingers move. Instead of saying anything, she merely went to fetch her employer a cup of tea and, considering the significance of the moment, two Garabaldi biscuits.

When she set the small tray down in front of him, Mycroft gave a faint smile. “Thank you, my dear,” he said.

“Your brother is safe?”

“He is indeed safe. And on his way home.”

She was the only person who really knew how much Mycroft Holmes had suffered over the whole disaster with his brother. That was only because she had learned, from necessity, how to read his subtle expressions. “Good,” she murmured.

Mycroft nodded. It was good. Already he could feel the iron band, one that had seemed to press on his chest ever since the day he’d walked out of Moriarty’s interrogation, loosening its grip. The guilt and worry began to ebb. There might even be more room inside for other emotions now.

Sherlock was coming home. Of course, that would lead to a host of other problems and the need for difficult explanations. But there would be time enough for all of that.

For now, he simply sipped tea and nibbled on a Garabaldi biscuit.

**********


	19. 19 DECEMBER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rooftop visit and a return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. If you notice, this is being posted much earlier than usual. That is because I will shortly be boarding a plane for a holiday visit. And this is where the experiment begins. I have never used a thumb drive before, but have been persuaded to try it, because I really want to keep to my one-a-day schedule through Boxing Day. So we shall see. Just in case, I have a hard copy if I have to retype. Although I will not have my Mac with me, I will have my Ipad, so if anyone is nice enough to sent a comment, I will be able to read it.
> 
> With that, today's chapter.

It was very peaceful. That was the first thought John had. Rather cold, yes, but quiet and he could even see some stars overhead, not an especially common sight in Central London. But mostly what he noticed was the peacefulness.

He was sure it had not felt like this on the day. There would have been no peace up here for Sherlock.

John sat down on the same ledge where he’d seen Sherlock standing. It seemed a very long way down to the place on the ground from where John had watched his world crumble.

It occurred that he must have looked very small to Sherlock and maybe that was why he’d felt it all right to jump: John was too small to be seen clearly. To be noticed. Too insignificant to matter.

John zipped his coat up to the very top.

No, he decided firmly, I mattered.

He remembered the sound of Sherlock’s voice during their final conversation. The lies being spoken did not matter at all. He knew, had always known, that Sherlock was not a fraud. Not a liar or a fake. John knew the only thing that really mattered were the tears he’d heard in that so-familiar voice. They were not the phony tears, not the plastic emotion, that Sherlock could summon in a blink.

Sherlock stood here and talked to his only friend and cried.

John believed. If he ever let go of that belief, he was afraid of what would be left.

For just a moment, a brief and surprisingly soothing moment, John played with the notion of simply leaning forward and letting it all go. He would know just how it felt, experience just what Sherlock had experienced, as he plunged towards the pavement.

But John didn’t do that.

Because he was still thinking. The result of all that thought was that he was no longer so sure that things on that day had happened as it appeared they had.

//Just a magic trick.//

John did not let himself imagine too far ahead, or wonder about anything that might be possible, but one thing he knew for sure was that he had to be alive to solve the mystery of Sherlock Holmes.

So, after a few more minutes, John left the ledge, and without looking back at all, headed down the stairs.

*****

Mycroft watched the screen as John Watson left St. Bart’s and started looking for a cab for his journey back to Baker Street. Rather whimsically, he wondered if John missed Sherlock’s ability to apparently summon transportation with a bare lift of his arm, no matter the time or the weather.

Before he could pursue that thought further, the door opened and his brother strolled in. The security detail did not follow him. They had done their job, getting him here safely, and undoubtedly they’d had their fill of the man.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said quietly. “It’s good to see you.”

Sherlock was thin and pale and obviously exhausted. He just shrugged and dropped onto the over-stuffed leather sofa.

“Job well done on Moran.”

“Well, apparently if one wants something done right,” Sherlock said caustically.

There was to be no grace period for brotherly togetherness, it seemed. Mycroft was fine with that. Right to business, then. “I was just watching the good doctor,” he said, gesturing at the screen.

A subtle tension entered Sherlock’s body. “Yes?” he drawled. “This time of night I would have expected him to be tucked up safely in bed. John is a firm believer in the benefits of a good night’s sleep.”

“He has not had many of those lately,” Mycroft snapped. “Tonight he was on the roof of St. Barts.”

If possible, Sherlock’s face went even paler.

Mycroft made a dismissive gesture. “Oh, don’t worry. He was just on a journey of remembrance. Now he is on his way back to Baker Street.” Mycroft turned brisk. “Very well. We have a great many thingd to do, brother dear, to bring you back to life.”

Sherlock just nodded absently, one bony index finger rubbing at his lower lip.

Mycroft flicked to a new screen and began to talk.

**********


	20. 20 DECEMBER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Truths are told. Sherlock watches a shadow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it looks as if I have mastered the thumb drive. So here is today's piece. Hope you enjoy!

Last year at the Xmas party Santa mooned the Superintendent. Luckily, the jolly old guy took off too quickly for the boss to realise that behind the red suit and the beard lurked Ralph Beattie from Traffic.

That was a good party.

But it turned out that this one was even better, because Greg Lestrade actually turned up with Mycroft Holmes in tow. The sound of jaws dropping echoed through the room, almost drowning out the music provided by someone’s I-pod and a bad set of speakers. Lestrade and Holmes seemed oblivious. They merely walked to the makeshift bar and picked up their plastic cups of cheap red plonk, then moved to a corner to survey the festivities.

Donovan and Anderson were standing nearby, their faces a twin study in stunned bewilderment.

Lestrade merely seemed bemused as he leaned closer and said something into Holmes’ ear.

Mycroft Holmes actually smiled in response.

They didn’t stay long, just sipped the really horrid wine, nibbled on a couple of miniature mince pies, and greeted anyone who wandered over. A surprising number of partygoers did walk over to talk to them. Donovan and Anderson were not among them.

Finally, Lestrade gestured towards the door, Holmes nodded, and with a general farewell to the room at large, the two men left the party.

Donovan followed just long enough to realise that they were heading for Lestrade’s office. So maybe it was some official business, cheap wine and mince pies notwithstanding.

Greg locked the door behind them and they settled into chairs. Skipping the foreplay, Greg got down to the question at hand at once. “All right,” he said. “What’s been on your mind?”

“Oh, a great deal,” Mycroft said with a faint smile.

“No doubt,” Greg replied wryly. “But specifically?”

Mycroft took a deep breath. “There is something I need to tell you and I am uncertain as to how you will react.”

“What? Have you got a wife hidden away somewhere?” Greg was joking. Mostly.

Mycroft shook his head. “No.” He smoothed his hair. “I do, however, have a brother hidden away.

Now it was Greg’s jaw that fell open. “You have another brother?”

“No,” Mycroft said, “I have only ever had one. And believe it when I say that has been more than sufficient.”

Greg just blinked for several moments. “//Sherlock//? Sherlock? He’s alive?”

“Indeed.”

“What the hell? What game are you playing at, Mycroft?” Greg was standing now, looking very much like a man headed for the door. Possibly he’d forgotten they were actually in his office.

“Greg,” Mycroft said, sounding perhaps more desperate than he’d intended. “Please let me explain.”

“Explain? How do you explain something like this? Where has Sherlock been? Does anybody know about this?” A sudden thought struck him and his face was abruptly twisted with anger. “What about John Watson?”

Mycroft stretched out his hand. “Please, Greg,” he said. Two pleases. Unprecedented.

After a moment, Greg sank into the chair again. “I’m listening,” he muttered.

Mycroft related the tale succinctly, with a characteristic lack of emotion.

Greg listened carefully, his eyes widening at several points. “Snipers?” he said in amazement.

“Yes. One with a weapon aimed at you, one at Mrs. Hudson, and the third on John Watson. Had Sherlock not been seen to jump from that building you all would have been dead instantly.”

“My god. But he survived.”

“There was a plan. Miss Hooper helped. His homeless network helped. Sherlock is nothing if not resourceful. He did suffer some injuries, but recovered quickly and set out to track down the snipers and others in Moriarty’s network.”

“And when he found them?”

Mycroft said nothing.

“I see. And now?”

“He is done. And he is back in London.”

“And John?”

“Does not know yet.”

“Jesus.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft took a deep breath. “Greg, secrets are my stock in trade. But you must know that over recent days keeping this particular secret from you has been very difficult.”

The room fell silent, save for the distant sounds from the Xmas party still going on down the hall.

 

*****

It was snowing lightly, which gave the whole scene a very nice holiday feel. From somewhere nearby came the soft notes of carols being sung.

The man stood in a dark doorway and smoked a cigarette, inhaling harshly as he watched a window across the street. He could tell there was a small, lighted tree in the room, but he was not looking at that. Rather, he was watching the shadowy figure moving around inside. He could not see the figure clearly, but he had seen some recent CCTV pictures, and he knew that John was much too thin.

Sherlock frowned fiercely.

Every fibre of his being wanted to just walk across the street, climb those familiar stairs, and grab his friend in a tight embrace. To celebrate the fact that they were both alive and were together again.

But it was not quite time yet.  
Much as he begrudged the fact, Mycroft was right that this had to be handled carefully.

“Soon,” he whispered. “So very soon, John.”

**********


	21. 21 DECEMBER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The British government, a police inspector, and a dead man walk into a home on Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to miss this when it ends. Hope you feel the same.

The British government, a policeman, and a dead man walked into a flat on Baker Street.

Of course, it was not quite that easy.

The day began when the policeman turned up at the penthouse flat belonging to the British government.

Mycroft greeted Greg with a faint smile, which after a moment, Greg returned. “This way,” Mycroft said, leading the way into the dining room. A very nice breakfast was arranged on the oak sideboard, but the dead man sitting at the table wasn’t eating. Only a cup of tea rated his attention; he clutched the cup in both hands as if it were somehow grounding him.

Greg stopped on the threshold. “You son of a bitch,” he said.

“Nice to see you, too, Lestrade,” Sherlock said.

“You look like hell. But I guess death will do that to a man.”

Sherlock’s curls had been haphazardly chopped off and still had traces of the auburn they had recently been. The hair framed a pale, sharp-boned face dominated by liquid eyes that seemed to be seeing something that was not even in the room.

“I guess I should thank you,” Greg said. “Apparently you saved my life.”

Sherlock just shrugged and sipped more tea. A look of discontent crossed his face. “Why can no one else in the world make tea the way I like it?” he said.

Greg was still watching him. “Of course, it was mostly for John, I know that.”

The eyes darkened even further, but Sherlock said nothing.

“It does make sense that a man would do a lot to have his tea made the way he likes it, doesn’t it?” Greg took a few steps closer. “Do you know what’s been happening with John?”

“It has been mentioned.”

“Do you care?”

The cup was set down very carefully. “Do I care?” Sherlock whispered in a ragged voice. “Do I care?”

Mycroft stepped into the room. “I think our time would be better spent going to see the man in question, don’t you both?”

Sherlock seemed to wonder if that was a good idea at all, but he merely stood, buttoned the slightly too-large black jacket he was wearing over a deep plum shirt, and walked out of the room.

It was decided, without any discussion at all, that Mycroft would go in first. Lestrade was rather wondering why he was even there, unless someone was expecting violence to break out. He conceded that it just might.

Sherlock leaned against the wall in the front hall, letting his fingers trail along the wallpaper, with a thoughtful and melancholy expression on his face. Lestrade settled on a step and asked after Mrs. Hudson. “Off to her sister’s for Xmas,” Sherlock muttered, obviously trying to hear something of what was going on above.  
*

Mycroft sat in his usual chair opposite John, who for once was not on the computer. Instead, he was leaning back against the sofa cushions, with both hands resting on his knees. “This is not your day to visit,” he said mildly. “You are generally a man of routine.”

“Well, yes,” Mycroft said. “Routine makes life easier. But there is a reason I am here. There is something I must tell you.”

John stared at him. “It’s about Sherlock, isn’t it?”

Mycroft nodded.

“I have still been thinking.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“About magic tricks and Sherlock and Xmas.”

“First, John, you must know why he jumped that day. Moriarty had three snipers in place. One at the Yard for Lestrade, one at Baker Street for Mrs. Hudson, and one at Barts.”

“For me,” John said in a low voice.

“Had Sherlock not been seen to jump as he did, all three of you would have died instantly.”

John was listening carefully. “You shouldn’t think that this surprises me at all,” he said after a moment. “I knew Sherlock.” He paused, tilting his head just a little, watching Mycroft.

“Sherlock had a plan.”

John smiled. “Sherlock always had a plan. Sometimes that plan was completely dreadful, of course.”

“What he knew for certain was that until the assassins were all dead, none of you would be safe. They had to be tracked down and taken care of.”

John was beginning to tremble.

“John,” Mycroft said.

“Yes, I finally realised that it made sense he would have a plan. Don’t know why it took me so long to figure it out except that I have been feeling very sad. Too much emotion.”

Mycroft leaned forward slightly, surprising himself a little with how desperately he wanted this man to understand. “He did it for you, John. And the others, of course, but primarily for you. Every time we talked, he asked about you.”

John gripped his thighs with whitened knuckles, trying to stop the trembling that had taken over his body. “Where is he?” he said in a raspy voice. “Where is Sherlock?”

“Just downstairs.”

“Oh, god,” John whispered. “Ohgodohgodohgod.”

“Shall I send him up?”

John just nodded.

Mycroft went to the door. “Sherlock,” he said. “John would like to see you.”

When Sherlock reached him, Mycroft gave him a small smile and left, quietly closing the door.

He walked down to Greg and they stood there together.

Until the shouting started and then they decided maybe it would be better if they just left.

*****

The shouting went on for some time. Physical violence was threatened, but never actually materialized, though it was a close run thing.

Abruptly, John gathered Sherlock into a tight hug. Neither man said anything as they just held on to one another for several minutes.

Just as abruptly, John pulled away and went to the window, staring down at the street. It seemed he had finally run out of words. Well, almost. He had only four words left.

“Please leave me alone.” He did not look at Sherlock as he spoke, because John knew that if he looked into that beloved face it would be his undoing. He needed some time. He needed…well, he wasn’t sure what he needed right now. Mostly he just wanted to hug Sherlock again, but he couldn’t. He had to think first and he couldn’t do that with Sherlock in the room, standing so close and looking at him with that strange new yearning in his eyes.

He heard Sherlock walk to the door. “I will be at Mycroft’s,” he said softly. “I will not bother you again. The choice to see me will be yours alone. But please know that my life will be quite pointless if you are not my friend.” He took a deep breath and seemed to have more to say, but instead he just left, closing the door very softly.

John stayed at the window and watched him walk away. Then Sherlock stopped and turned to look up at the window. He lifted a hand in farewell.

After a moment, John returned the wave.

**********


	22. 22 DECEMBER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adjusting to the way things are now. Some are better at it than others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost there now.  
> I'm really in the mood for a spiked eggnog, if anybody's offering.

Somebody had to make the first move. Sadly, they were both men. And English. Maybe some alcohol would help.

But at the moment, Greg was most interested in finding out what had happened after they left Baker Street the day before.

To that end, they were sitting in Mycroft’s library [this was the biggest damned flat Greg had ever seen], having a quiet drink. Part of Greg’s mind was bemused by the fact that the quality of his alcohol intake had improved dramatically since he’d started, uh, dating Mycroft. If that’s what they were even doing.

Mycroft did not look particularly happy at the moment. “Well, sadly, Sherlock did not stay at Baker Street. He is still living here. John asked him to leave.”

Greg couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What? After all he went through, he kicked Sherlock out? What the hell?”

Mycroft waved off the words. “Oh, John will come around. He just needs a little time to come to terms with everything.”

“How is Sherlock?

“Don’t ask. I think if someone took him back to Barts he’d gladly jump off again. Without a plan to survive this time.”

They sat in companionable silence, which was slightly odd, given the circumstances.

“Greg---”

“Mycroft---”

They spoke at the same moment and then both chuckled.

“Please,” Mycroft said with a gesture.

Now Greg felt himself flush a bit. “Don’t really know what I was going to say. You go on.”  
Maybe it was easier for the British government to make a giant leap. “Not to put too fine a point on it, Greg, are you amenable to the progression of our relationship?”

Only a Holmes would put it that way.

Before Greg could reply, although god only knew what he was going to say, the quiet was shattered by shouting and the slamming of doors, followed by Sherlock bursting into the room. “Christ above,” he said. “Why don’t you two just kiss and be done with it? Your damned unresolved sexual tension is very annoying.”

“//Our// unresolved sexual tension?” Mycroft said with an uncharacteristic snicker.

“Have you talked to John today?” Gregg asked.

Sherlock seemed to shrink into himself a bit. “No,” he said softly.

“Maybe you should make a move.”

“I promised that I wouldn’t. I said…it was up to him to decide if he still wanted to be my friend or not."

Then he whirled around and left the room again.

*****

John thought about walking across the street and ringing the bell. The guards would let him in; he knew that. He could get into that posh lift with its carpet and gold paint and in moments he would see Sherlock.

But he didn’t do that. Instead, he huddled in the doorway of the building opposite and watched the windows. Couldn’t see a thing, of course, behind the thick curtains. Just for now, it was enough for him to know that Sherlock was inside. Just for now, it was more than enough to not be standing in front of a black headstone talking to a dead man.

Just for now, he was content with the knowledge that the universe once again contained Sherlock Holmes.

And, honestly, he was almost giddy with the memory of the look that had been visible in those beautiful silver-green eyes. John Watson had his miracle and now he just had to learn how to believe in it. To believe in Sherlock.

**********


	23. 23 DECEMBER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xmas is coming. Busy days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a bit late today. Xmas. Family.

Nobody had remembered the Xmas shopping.

Well, there had been a lot going on. New relationships apparently being formed. The dead coming back to life. Not to mention what might be something of a nervous breakdown in progress on Baker Street.

Busy times.

So when the 23rd dawned, some people needed to move quickly.

Mycroft sent Anthea out with his credit card. She did well---a Hermes scarf and some Evening in Paris cologne for Mummy, who would not know why she was receiving the gifts or from whom they came, but who would smile none the less; an 18th century treatise on murder within religious orders for Sherlock, a cashmere jumper in a lovely shade of blue for John.

Somehow it did not feel right to have her get something for Greg. Instead. Mycroft called his tailor and ordered five bespoke shirts: two white, two dove grey, and one robin’s egg blue, paying an excessive premium for next day delivery. Luckily he was able to give the man Greg’s measurements.

He was pleased with his morning’s work.  
*

Greg had given his kids their gifts early, since they were already on their way to Disney Paris. He sent a candy-flowers combo to his mother. Which left only Mycroft and he had no idea what to get the man who really did seem to have everything. Finally, he just picked up an especially nice card [which cost five bloody pounds, so it damned well better be appreciated] and wrote a very personal message inside.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Fools rushed in.

The clichés were thick on the ground.  
*

Sherlock didn’t do Xmas shopping. Never had and wasn’t going to start now. It was definitely not Xmas shopping to call Angelo and arrange to have a very special meal delivered to John on Xmas Eve, just so he would have something nice for the holiday.

John was much too thin.

Sherlock chose not to acknowledge the fact that deep inside he was already considering that next Xmas he might well do a little bit of shopping. If he had someone in his life for whom to buy a gift.  
*

Back on Baker Street, John was still thinking. If, as he continued to think, he was also doing some humming of Xmas carols, that didn’t really mean anything, did it? Seriously, did it?

And if he ventured out as far as Tesco's and bought a package of Dark Chocolate HobNobs and the fancy Lapsang Souchong tea, just to have on hand in case anybody turned up, what of it? Meant nothing.

Except that it also meant everything.

**********


	24. 24 DECEMBER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xmas Eve. Is everybody happy yet?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Better go to sleep early or Father Christmas won't turn up.  
> Happy, happy, to all of you.

Well, the orchestra kept playing as the Titanic went down, too, right?

Much of that same spirit filled the parlour in a very large flat in London on Xmas Eve, as three not necessarily wise men sat there watching the fire.

Mycroft and Greg, at least, tried to carry on a conversation. For his part, Sherlock just slouched in a chair and glared. It was increasingly clear that resurrection did not confer a good nature upon the reborn. Sadly. Maybe that was only an Easter thing.

The later it got, the more Sherlock glared.

“Here,” Mycroft said finally, tossing a wrapped package at his brother. “Take this damned gift and go to your room. You are starting to annoy me.”

Sherlock made a rude gesture and left the room.

When they were alone, Mycroft handed a package to Greg. “Merry Xmas,” he said.

Greg was more than a little stunned at the gift. “My god,” he said, touching the soft fabric of the shirts carefully. “It’s too much.”

But Mycroft just shook his head. After he had opened the card and read the message, he looked into the other man’s eyes. “Greg,” he said in a soft voice.

Greg walked over and held out his hand. Mycroft took it and held on tightly. “Will you stay?” he asked.

Greg nodded.

In the distance, church bells began to ring,

*****

When the front door bell rang, John’s heart thumped too quickly for just a moment.

Maybe Sherlock had broken his promise not to bother him again. It sounded like the sort of thing he would do. John thought that he was rather hoping that was so. He tried to put an irritated expression on his face as he hurried down to the door. Then he tried not to be horribly disappointed when he found only a waiter from Angelo’s standing there and not a lanky git looking sheepish.

He carried the box up to the kitchen and found the card on top.

JOHN,

PLEASE ENJOY THIS MEAL WITH MY BEST WISHES.  
I HAVE MISSED YOU.  
ALL I REALLY WANT IS FOR YOU TO BE HAPPY.  
WELL, THAT’S NOT ALTOGETHER TRUE.  
I WANT TO BE HAPPY AS WELL. THOSE TWO THINGS  
ARE INEXTRICABLY LINKED.

-YOUR FRIEND,  
SHERLOCK HOLMES

John pulled several covered dishes out of the box and sat down to eat.

He wasn’t even thinking any more. There wasn’t anything to think about.

Except for all the things he wanted to think about.

**********


	25. XMAS DAY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fruitcake, an ugly jumper, and Xmas wishes come true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peace and happiness to all of you.  
> Don't forget Boxing Day!

Joy to the world. Or at least to that one tiny corner of it occupied by the British government, a policeman, a no-longer dead man, and the previously most miserable man in the universe.

The day started slowly.

A special Xmas breakfast buffet was served by the cook-cum-housekeeper, who was extremely pleased by the quite large cheque presented by her employer that very morning. Mycroft and Greg, looking relaxed, albeit not especially well-rested, were enjoying the meal and some quiet conversation, when Sherlock slouched into the room, poured himself some tea, and took up glaring just where he’d left off the night before.

“Am I supposed to just sit here all day watching you two in your post-coital glow?” he said bitterly.

“That’s entirely up to you,” Mycroft replied mildly.

Greg reddened just a little.

Before things could degenerate further, the doorbell chimed. “Let me,” Sherlock said quickly. “Anything to get out of this room.”

He walked to the door and yanked it open.

“Oh,” he said in an exhalation of breath.

John Watson was standing there, looking small and warm and like…well, like Xmas morning. Like the best Xmas morning ever. “Thank you for the dinner last night,” he said.

“It was…nothing. You’re too thin,” Sherlock complained.

“Pot, kettle,” John replied.

They just looked at one another for a long moment. Then John's spine straightened and his shoulders went back. The soldier emerged.

“Come home,” he said finally, firmly.

Instead of speaking, Sherlock lifted a hand towards him and without hesitation, John gripped it tightly. 

“Come home,” John said again. “To me.” He licked his upper lip. "I have missed you so much. It hurt every minute." He tapped his chest with their joined hands. "It hurt right here."

Sherlock was holding onto John as if he were afraid the other man might actually float off or run away or simply vanish in a puff of smoke. “John,” he said. That was all.

It must have been enough, because John Watson smiled. And then he stepped closer, coming into the foyer and closing the door.

Not giving himself time to think, [after all, he'd thought about it for months] Sherlock bent down and touched his lips lightly to John's. Someone made a small sound. It was probably a coincidence that some nearby church bell began to ring at that moment, but the sound was always in Sherlock's memory when he remembered that kiss, which he would do every day for the rest of his life.

Sherlock finally released John's hand, but only so he could wrap both arms around the other man and pull him even closer. "John," he murmured again and it was a benediction.

Two sighs mingled and became one sound.

*  
The cook-cum-housekeeper walked into the dining room to see if anybody would like more toast. She was surprised to find the room empty. Mr. Holmes generally liked to linger over his holiday breakfast, but not today, it seemed. Well, he was a busy man. Something probably came up.

Ignoring whatever was going on in the front hallway with Mr. Holmes the Younger and a short man in a terrible Xmas jumper, because ignoring it seemed the only polite thing to do, she began to clear away the dishes. When those two in the hall came up for air, [which would have to happen at some point, right?] she would offer them tea and fruitcake.

It was a nice Xmas.

**********


	26. BOXING DAY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing, really, but fluff. But necessary fluff, I think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a little late---spent part of the day down the pub watching the football. Sadly, the best the Spurs could manage was a 1-1 draw. Also, I think a little part of me did not want this to be over. I have enjoyed it so much, especially the lovely kudos and the many comments. I shall miss hearing from you every day. I will be absent for a while as I work to finish my long AU. Of course, inspiration might strike for something short, especially after season 3 airs, when I might find it necessary to write something along the lines of 'No, no, it should have gone THIS way." Well, in my stories it always will. If I write it, I will post it.
> 
> So, onto the fluff.

It was not the usual order of things for Mr. Holmes to actually appear in the kitchen.

But this morning he did, wrapped in a quilted forest green silk bathrobe.

At first thought, the cook-cum-housekeeper was afraid something was wrong. But then she realised that her employer looked quite cheerful. “Forgive for intruding on your domain,” he said pleasantly. “But I rather wanted to take a tea tray to my room.”

“Of course,” she said.

“A tea tray for two,” he elucidated.

“Certainly.” She had been in service for a long time and so she did not bat an eye as she fixed the tray, adding two of the lovely freshly-baked cinnamon buns she knew Mr. Holmes favored.

With a smile, he lifted the tray and was gone.

*

Greg was still propped up against the headboard, just as Mycroft had asked him to be, waiting for the promised tea. He really needed tea. When Mycroft set the tray onto the bedside table and joined him under the duvet, Greg could only smile. “Cinnamon buns,” Mycroft announced with a flourish. Then he briefly looked concerned. “Do you like cinnamon buns?”

“Doesn’t everyone? And those smell wonderful.”

Reassured, Mycroft settled down. "They are quite nice. And without the presence of my tiresome brother and his supposedly humourous remarks, I shall enjoy mine enormously."

Gregg knew very well that if Sherlock were not now home and safe, Mycroft would not have said that.

He also knew that there were probably things to be talked about, plans to be made. But none of that happened over their Boxing Day breakfast. They simply ate the buns and drank the tea and chatted about nothing at all of importance. And then, because the last few weeks had been rather tumultuous and extremely wearying, they curled up together again and went back to sleep. It seemed the perfect way to spend the day.

Actually, Greg decided with his last conscious thought, it seemed like the perfect way to spend the next fifty or so years. Even as he thought that, the inspector realised that he was probably getting way ahead of himself.

But then he noticed the slender hand that had attached itself to his arm so firmly that it almost seemed possessive. Maybe he wasn't thinking too far ahead after all.

And then he fell asleep.

*****

 

Sherlock Holmes had never woken up with someone else in his bed.

Oh, he hadn't been a virgin before last night, no matter what some other people thought. He’d experimented, naturally. What good scientist wouldn't have? But those experiments had never included having another human being sleeping next to him for an entire night..

So it was just a little startling to open his eyes and find someone else’s head resting on his chest. Someone’s leg shoved between his own two. The breath of some other being caressing his skin.

It was odd, yes. But it was also, frankly, quite wonderful, only because that head, that leg, those little puffs of damp breath belonged to John Hamish Watson

Sherlock ran two fingers through soft brown-blond-grey hair and marveled at the feel. He touched the scar on John’s shoulder and thanked whatever fates had kept this man alive, brought him back to London, guided his footsteps into the lab at Barts that day.

This man next to him, pressed against him, had befriended the Freak against all advice, had saved him from others and, even more importantly, from himself. Had waited for him without knowing that he could ever come back.

This man had said things last night that Sherlock had never expected to hear. Had never wanted to hear. But now he thought that if he never heard those things from John again, it might kill him. [Not literally, of course, but the absence of the words would be a kind of death.]

 

After thinking about all of that, Sherlock did the bravest thing he had ever done. A thing that took much more courage than had jumping off a building. Or tracking down and killing the monsters of Moriarty’s empire. Sherlock made the conscious decision to take this major step, because otherwise what had it all been for?

He bent his head next to John’s ear. “I love you,” he whispered.

And then his Xmas miracle came, albeit one day late. Call it his Boxing Day miracle. “I love you, too,” John whispered in return. Then he turned his head and smiled at Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes knew at that moment that he wanted, needed, to wake up every morning for the rest of his life being smiled at by John Watson. He thought about saying that out loud, but before he could form the words, John was kissing him.

Oh, even better, he thought fuzzily. Every morning I must wake up being kissed by John Watson.

“I want to kiss you every morning for the rest of my life,” John said softly.

That was all right then. Everything would always be all right as long as John loved him. 

Nobody said anything else for quite a long time and that was perfectly fine as well.

*

John watched Sherlock sleep.

Such a simple thing, really. Watching Sherlock Holmes sleep in bed next to him. His face was peaceful, younger looking than when he was awake. A slight shadow of pinkness still brushed his ridiculous cheekbones, a remnant of their lovemaking.

And he was drooling just a bit.

So on Boxing Day, John Watson watched Sherlock Holmes drool and it was easily the most perfect moment of his entire misbegotten life.

Finally, John rested his head against Sherlock's chest again and in only a moment, he was asleep once more.

If he dreamed at all, they were quiet pleasant dreams.

 

FINI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have read this and enjoyed it, perhaps you might also like my other stories posted here. The Baker Street ABC, While The Music Lasts, and The Empty Spaces Between The Stars.
> 
> And I hope you will look out for my AU when it is finished.

**Author's Note:**

> It occurs that before this story ends we will know, at least, what happens in episode one, after the preview showing in London. I expect it will be wonderful, although I also expect it to rather break me heart. But whatever happens, my Sherlock and John will go on as I see them. Hope you will continue to enjoy.


End file.
